Balance – A Futile Quest

Married to Shiftwork

Trying to explain what life is like for moms of little kids is like trying to explain gravity to a chicken. Trying to explain what it’s like to have small kids with a shift working partner is harder.

The Shiftworkette exists in a strange purgatory somewhere in between single parent, and single parent with a roommate whose erratic schedule ensures that routine is never established.

For the record: there is no person in this whole wide world who appreciates my husband’s sacrifices more than I do. He works long hours, hard hours, and often while contending with and managing complex and dramatic workplace politics. Been there. Don’t miss it. Barf. 

I am a Canadian woman. I am so blessed to be living in a country where my family’s freedom and resource needs are abundantly met. I’m also increasingly aware that there are a whole bunch of flaws in our system where it comes to balance.

Remember the glow of your first pregnancy? (Yes, I know it was really just sweat from incessant morning sickness, but follow me here…) We were the best of friends with our  husbands. They were our ‘rock’. We were going to “co-parent”. Ha! We would continue to share responsibilities equally, and (get this!balance would emerge organically to support the dynamic of our adorable growing family. Masssssssive eye roll.  

And then the shift work offer came in and you thought – wait for it- this will give us more time together. He’ll get a whole week off at a time? Sounds dreamy, thank you!

You didn’t realize though, that when you agreed to that you were giving up the possibility of balanced domestic responsibility. Of balance altogether, really.

I’m Not Built for This

I do about four days before I want to choke the life out of anyone for anything. It isn’t justified and it isn’t fair, but I wrote it down so it’s staying there. I get nothing done the week that he’s away, so the week that he’s home is spent taking turns parenting the kids while the other runs out to do any of the one thousand items that need to be covered.

All the ‘Shoulds’

The problem that I see is that the stay at home mom really cannot win. If you’re exclusively a SAHM, you should really be taking on a part time job. If you’re a SAHM who tries to cram in some work time because you need the break (or you need the money!) your children are now ‘suffering’ in your absence.

If you’re a mother working outside the home, you must actively dislike your kids. And your house needs to be clean, and dinner should be made and you should be able to do all of this with a smile on your face and not a trace of fat on your ass. Subsist on stale closet goldfish crackers and develop the unshakeability of a brick fucking wall because if you crack even a little, the whole structure implodes. And if that happens it’s on you, mama! It was probably your fault anyway, the kids could feel your anxiety. (Don’t you love it!)

Recently, I was told that by giving my child a phone to watch in a restaurant that I wasn’t just giving myself and the other patrons an opportunity to consume an adult meal in peace as I thought. Nope. By letting this happen, I have instead engaged in what this spirited old broad called “raising the next serial murderers of our time”. Silly me. Moms. Can’t. Win.

It’s all barely manageable without superhuman tenacity, and if you add any kind of neurological challenge on the part of any member of the family (ADHD, depression, anxiety etc.) just say goodnight.

Balance is Out of Reach

The fact is, balance doesn’t exist these days. And it won’t for a while; even longer for many of us. All we can do is talk to each other and keep talking. Our husbands are good people, but they’re not here living this, after all. And he’s doing all he can too…maybe. The verdict’s out. I haven’t had time to ask him.

We can talk about positive self talk and self care, but the reality is that you’re probably better off doing away with any lofty fantasies of bubble baths and quiet cups of tea. Get used to the lukewarm bathwater you commandeer after your 2 year old is done for the night. Tell yourself that there’s no pee in there. Nope, no pee.

Reach out to the lonely mommies in your community in solidarity, be kind to yourself so you can be kind to others in your position. And most importantly, if you find yourself living through the small kid years in total bliss and I sound like a total nut bar to you right now, appreciate that with the totality of your being. Dinner together 5 days a week is a novelty occurrence for many of us.

Hang in there, warrior mamas. You’re not alone. Batshit is the new normal.

Making Italian

Photo by Piotr Miazga on Unsplash

We just came through four months of being sick. Four months of my 5 year old bringing home every god forsaken germ he could locate at the local Kindergarten, and blowing it on us. It pains me, really, to think of the number of things he must have licked in an effort to accomplish this incredible feat. But accomplish it, he did! Like a puppy looking for love, arriving at your feet with an avian corpse. It’s not that I’m overly enthused with the number of magpies anyway, but germy gifts are not gifts of love.

So we were sick. Stomach flu, head cold, ear infection, ear infection, chest cold, ear infection, and sometimes two at once! I think we have slept once since our adventure began and never once ate a vegetable that my mother didn’t cook for us. (Is it possible we also had scurvy?) Days would blend into weeks and the crying from the baby never, ever stopped.

Lots of days I pity partied until I either read my news feed (insert:Syria), or until something else happened to knock me off the pity stick that was, like, sooo up my ass. One day I’m video conferencing my friend, S, while in a sad attempt to make it to bedtime with my sanity and manage to feed the kids. ‘Feed them what?’ I thought. I forgot we don’t even own food anymore.

Back to the pantry – got it! Kids all like ramen noodles, right? I assume. I don’t think mine had had any before. So I’m doing it, but I’m slightly embarrassed to be feeding sick kids something so totally full of msg. And I’m not crunchy! It’s just that I feel like you wait until you have fully developed livers and kidneys before you fuck with ichiban.

So I tell S what I’m doing because I know she’s good peeps and isn’t likely to judge me (but also because if I don’t offer a play-by-play of my every move, what good am I?!). She could sense my defeat, my sense of ‘doneness’ with everything. Perhaps the unwashed hair and questionable substances smeared into my shirt gave it away? As if on cue, and with no judgment or other disparaging insinuation as to my parenting she announced, as this deep fried/boiled concoction came into her view, “Look at you! You’re making Italian!”  

“Obviously”, I say. “There is no substitute for nutrition, and my children deserve the best”.

Lean on your friends, the good ones will remind you to laugh.

What I Wish I’d Been Told About Post-partum Depression

Photo by Chris Barbalis on Unsplash

New mothers everywhere are being talked to about post-partum depression (PPD) at every government-run meeting. We are told ad-nauseum to watch ourselves for signs of sadness that doesn’t dissipate with the baby blues. We are given stats and shown charts, but for a new mother who has never herself dealt with any of the 75 000 new issues arising out of just having the baby (let alone keeping it alive), much of this one-sided conversation can seem like another meeting that could have been an email, or, another appointment that could have been a nap.

Since mental illness of any kind is diverse in its presentation, it’s no surprise that the snapshot of ‘classic PPD’ that’s presented to new moms can miss the mark entirely. Often, it can be reduced to being presented as a nagging discomfort, instead of a relentless onslaught of symptoms that she feels helpless to combat.

We are aware, of course, that the topic can feel like unnecessary fear mongering to a happy mother of a thriving newborn, and it kind of kills the vibe at mommy class. For a new mom who struggles, though, a bit more honest perspective might be welcomed. So, in the interest of supporting the needs of the few, the following outlines what I wish I had known before PPD hit me like a bat out of hell.

1. You May Not Be the Best Person to Judge Your ‘State’

After all, we have no barometer for what being a new mom should feel like other than what we glean from other women leading up to the birth, which can be summarized as “it will be the hardest thing you ever do”. We kind of get contradicting messages, don’t we? It should be the hardest thing, but also not too hard. How hard is too hard? And if you ask your husband, like you, he’s likely too close to the issue to be objective.

If you tend to be a relentless perfectionist who is hard on herself, you’re at risk of letting this thing go too far for too long. If you, like me, like to yell from across the canyon at your rescue crew ‘I got this’ while clinging to the edge by your last two available fingers, you would be best to talk to a friend or relative before you diagnose yourself as weak, instead of depressed.

2. Your Doctor Might Not Be As Willing to Help as You’d Hoped.

Patricia Tomasi of the Huffington Post writes “…when [mothers] turn to the medical system for help for one of the most common postpartum complications, the onus is thrown back on them to figure their way out of postpartum depression while they’re in the middle of a crisis…”. She’s right.

I talked to my post-partum “care team” until I was blue in the face about the fact that things were not feeling right for me since about day 3 of being a mom. I knew early on that some of the stuff I was experiencing wasn’t run-of-the-mill. Still, they continued to tell me that the first six weeks these things could be considered normal, which turned out to be a self-fulfilling prophecy because by the sixth week I had stopped bringing it up. I normalized it in order to cope. It wasn’t until I could scarcely function that a psychologist heard me when I said something is wrong. 11 months later and $500 into therapy.

3. You May Need to Doctor-shop

The thing that we sometimes forget about doctors is that they are people just like us. They have areas they are more passionate about than others, and they have beliefs (inherent from culture, society, religion or just in their character) that can sometimes interfere with their prioritizing of concerns. In my case, going to my family doctor who presented with the common trifecta of being a) not a parent b) not a woman and c) a trembling circus clown where it came to women’s issues, did not elicit the results I was looking for.

This doctor was admittedly not confident in prescribing antidepressants safely to breastfeeding mothers, but was also too arrogant to refer me to someone who could.  I was given tranquilizers to put me to sleep, and a google maps printed info sheet on a publicly funded drop-off daycare for mothers in detox programs, when my mother pressed him as-to whom, in his opinion, would watch my child while I doped myself into a coma? Seriously.

I am of the opinion that we prioritize the needs of the child to the detriment of the well-being of the mother (as if they are somehow unrelated issues). It’s so hard to advocate for yourself when you’re overwhelmed, so make lists of your concerns and bring them to the doctor. The rules are that you discuss each one before you leave, and if their answer leaves you feeling more desperate, find yourself another doctor.

4. You Might Forget You’re Sad Because You’re So Angry

It can be hard to see which one comes first when your world is upside-down, but in my case sadness came much later to the party (once I had expended every ounce of energy I had being angry). I woke up angry, I went to sleep angry, I dreamed about punishing my husband (just for being alive, I think). Things that should have been sideline concerns received responses of biblical proportions from me. I felt like a tantruming toddler with big-girl problems. I didn’t have time to be sad.

5. Apocalypse Now

The term Sundowning has been used to describe a change in behavior in dementia patients which correlates with the sun setting each day. I had severe sundown symptoms. Where a dementia patient’s confusion and/or tremors might be increased, my anxiety would rise as the sun went down from a level that was an impairment to a level that was debilitating. I found myself curled up in a ball on the couch, in uncontrolled sobs, feeling like apocalypse was nigh. Night time terrified me for more reasons than I could verbalize.

6. Other Factors May Distort Your Perception of What’s Happening

There’s a lot going on when you’ve just had a baby. I wasn’t feeling good but there were bigger issues at hand. My son had an emergency surgery at 2 weeks, and started showing signs of food allergy in the 3rd. He screamed 10ish hours of the day and only slept in 20-minute increments. It can be difficult to label yourself clinically afflicted when your circumstances could make even the most Theresa-of-Mothers want to light themselves on fire.

Trouble nursing, incessant night wakings and the onslaught of other concerns that invade your psyche after having a child (both real and imagined) can blur your understanding of what you’re experiencing. You might like thinking that you’re superhuman, but if the moment someone hugs you and asks if you’re okay you deteriorate into a sobbing ball of incoherence… there’s your sign.

7. Every Task Can Feel Insurmountable

I recall feeling that absolutely everything was just too much. I walked around like I was freshly traumatized everywhere I went, and little accomplishments were unavailable to me. Eating was too much to ask, let alone preparing it. Getting my kid vaccinated by myself was inconceivable. And I remember, with some frequency, sitting on the floor looking up at a counter full of dishes and knowing that I needed to do them without the slightest idea how.

8. You Might be Faking-it Too Well

I don’t think this can be overemphasized, perfectionist mamas. Some of us can put on a performance that could make any crowd believe we are functioning somewhere in the vicinity of normal. My state of mind was very poor when left to its own devices, so staying around people is what kept me going. It didn’t matter who, and it didn’t matter where. Some of the places I felt best was when I was at the doctor’s office and someone else was home holding my screaming baby. In those offices I would find a smile and some composure, and often forfeit any hope for helpful intervention as a result. It wasn’t until a psychiatrist and 5 of his minions looked at me from across a table and said “but look at you, you present so well. We’ve even had some laughs!” that I realized what all the doctors had been thinking all along. “Of course I look well here,” I said, annoyed. “I’m around people and someone else is looking after my baby so I can pretend to be someone else for 3 hours”. With that, they handed over the Zoloft that would give me my life back.

9. Thoughts of Self Harm Might Not Be on Your Radar

You’ve got a song stuck in your head. Only it isn’t a song. It’s a thought or an image that won’t go away. It might come once in a while, and other times it might be the only thing you can think for hours. It could be unfounded worry about your baby’s wellbeing. It might be something someone said. But it wont leave and it comes with emotions that make it hard to follow conversations or remember basic things. You might feel like everyone would be better off if you left. All of this is bad, but none of it is “thoughts of self-harm or of harming your child”. This is important because asking about thoughts of self-harm,  without asking if you’ve ever wished you could be hit by a bus are two sides of the same very relevant coin.

10. Medication is Not a Life Sentence

Part of being a new mom is wanting to do things right. It’s a job we take seriously, and deservedly so! So, when things aren’t going well, we look to the least intrusive mechanism for relief, and it’s no wonder. We are so very lucky to live at a time where we have access to all manner of alternative medicine! Tinctures, reiki, cognitive therapies, acupuncture and naturopaths – I tried them all, and they’re a great first-line option. The reality of this thing, though, is that sometimes the circumstances are too rootbound for anything to help but a hard reset. (And I would have had to remortgage my house to afford the continued regimen of appointments, all of which were falling short of providing an answer).

When what you’re doing isn’t working, give yourself the space to try something new. And if one medication doesn’t work for you, try another. Something will work. There is a world on the other side of PPD where you wake up excited to see your baby’s face, and maybe even your husband’s! It’s hard to believe it, but medication can turn enemies into friends – and your marriage, or your partnership, deserves it. It can be hard to remember what it feels like to be content, when you are deep in the dark. If, at a certain point, it becomes clear that the monkey on your back isn’t going away without a fight, don’t put yourself in the position of looking back to see that you were robbed of all that time that you could have spent being more active in your child’s life and in your own. You won’t realize how bad you felt, until you feel better. And these interventions aren’t forever, they are there for as long as it works for you and your family. You do what you need to do to move on.

Give Up (Just a Little)

For many of us, motherhood presents itself as the first arena in which we aren’t fully in charge of the outcome. We know this stuff is common, but we still cower to the stigma because we think if we try harder we can claw life back within our control. Giving up white-knuckled control of motherhood allows room to embrace the vastness of the mothering experience. It allows you to give yourself, and other moms with other struggles, a break. You become a safe zone for women to talk about what’s really going on, and you begin to lead with a strong sense of compassion for yourself and others.

The friendships that I’ve fostered in the wake of my experience with PPD have been soul enriching and lasting. We celebrate each other. We look out for each other. We bring dinner when dinner is needed, we pick each other up after long ugly cries, and we help wherever we can help – because it’s okay to need it.

We aren’t superheroes and we aren’t meant to be. Our struggles tend toward similar issues of varying degrees and should inspire us to accept ourselves when we’re up and when we’re down, without the judgment that keeps us too stuck to move forward.


Early in My Days as a New Parent, My Son’s Pediatrician Looked Up at Me While I Complained of Feelings of Guilt for Some Marginal Oversight.

“Now that you’re a mother, you will come to understand that everything is your fault,” she said. Truer words have never been spoken.

Recently, I was burned out. I needed a break from the demands and frustrations associated with motherhood and its complexity in general. I sought spiritual wisdom, as I often do, at an extended meditation program where I was sure that I would escape my feelings of maternal inadequacy and of relentless, insurmountable stress.

Glaring down at me from a large screen was the guru I’d been waiting for. He began an intriguing lecture on our collective and growing impatience and need for instant gratification. I related this to my life, finding resonance in more than a few ways.  And then it happened. Even this man found a way to make me wrong when he compared impatience with his understanding that “when children can’t sit in a chair for 6 hours quietly, we call them ADHD and medicate them for being children”. I had come there to escape this kind of arrogance. Was this guy for real? Turns out that he was, and I’m not sure I should be surprised. After all, he was doing what many have the habit of doing – reducing this extremely difficult, highly emotional subject to just that – a symptom of our society and its lazy (impatient) parenting.


Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) – the acronym hardly needs to be broken down these days. But for all our understanding of the term itself, we seem to have a pervasive misunderstanding of what it implies.

ADHD is a confirmed neurological disorder, affecting more than 5% of children. And while numbers and studies are abundant, there remains a kind of atmospheric indifference to the compelling evidence that this thing is real. Perhaps what’s missing from the conversation is an understanding of the complex and difficult-to-treat symptoms associated with this disorder, and the enormous challenges that can be presented to these children and their families. Perhaps what is missing from the conversation is a day in the life of one of their parents.

Parents Have Plenty to Consider

ADHD is not code for ‘can’t sit still’. If it were that simple, and it isn’t, the debate would scarcely need to be had. This disorder comes with a plethora of comorbid disorders such as anxiety, compulsions, sensory processing disorder (SPD), sleep disorders, emotional dysregulation, impulse control challenges and more. Often, parents and caregivers of children with ADHD are dealing with far more than just a kid who is ‘busy’. ADHD is indiscriminate in its manifestation, and difficult to diagnose due to a high degree of variability in its presentation. Moreover, this is a disorder that does not have a physical presentation. That means that “your kid looks okay to me, you just need to discipline him” really is irrelevant to the conversation.

The Treadmill of Responsibility

While it is true that there are instances in which these presentations are managed with soft approaches like therapy and coaching, the reality is that in many cases the benefits of medicating far outweigh the risks. The common rhetoric appears to reflect that parents are interested in medication as a ‘quick fix’, but this could not be further from the truth. The truth is, medication is only one piece of the puzzle, and can be difficult to access if you don’t have a doctor who is confident prescribing. While we want our kids to be thriving in the world with as little intervention as possible, abstaining from necessary intervention does not help these children interact appropriately with their peers, maintain friendships, make them available for learning (socially or academically), or develop important rapport with family members and friends outside of their nuclear family (relationships within the nuclear family are also often strained). So yes to medication, where appropriate. Yes to therapists and psychiatrists, and specialty parenting classes, and funding applications, and restricted diets, and sleepless nights, and marital discord, and endless parental guilt, and working with the teacher, and extra glasses of wine, and trips to your own doctor (if you can find time) for your own medication. Because we can do anything, but not everything. For everything, some moms need carefully considered medical intervention, too.

Just as we have come a long way in understanding the risk-benefit ratio of medicating clinical depression, ‘no medication’ still sounds good in theory, until someone you love is suffering unbearably. Furthermore, untreated adolescents suffering from ADHD are shown to be more susceptible to self-medicating with illicit drugs to control symptoms – because contrary to popular belief, this is no fun for them either.

And Another Thing

Advocates for more militant discipline and more conscientious parenting should consider the flaws in their thinking, and the stress that these family units are often operating under. Funding cuts in the medical and educational systems coupled with unhealthy levels of stress within the home often leads to caregiver fatigue and isolation. If it would make our critics feel better, though, we’ve all tried structured consistent discipline, too. Lots of it. 

So, if you or someone you know has had remarkable success overcoming ADHD with extra attention, love and cuddles, be eternally grateful. That is not the story for the vast majority of ADHD families. Our children are loved –  beautiful, intelligent, and gifted in as many ways as they are complex and challenging. With respect, if you haven’t got anything nice to say, get out of our way. We’re busy trying to accomplish what criticism cannot.

Cursing for Catharsis

“Under certain circumstances, profanity provides a relief denied even to prayer.” [Mark Twain, a Biography] ― Mark Twain

I believe in words. I believe in their power to bring articulation to the nondescript, mundane and the monotonous. They add meaning to the obscurity of our notions. They bring people together, and they tear people apart. More than anything, words and language represent a tangible spectrum from which we can express and expose the human spirit.

Like anything, words are subject to the user, the receiver and the silent bystander. Left to interpretation, opened to politicking, and, (like most things fundamental), the danger of stifling by dogma.  There is no limitation more grand than the idea that there are ‘good‘ words and ‘bad‘ words, and that only the good ones should be used to describe even the most visceral of feelings. 

There is a ridiculous argument that the use of curse words are a reflection of a limited vocabulary. I would argue, instead, that to speak without deserving passion is either a reflection of some deep emotional repression or a level of serenity that I just. don’t. possess. After all, it has rarely helped me to have a friend identify with my fear/anger/sadness with lengthy allegory or bullshit rhetoric when simply: “being a mom is the fucking worst sometimes” would provide just the solidarity I needed.

We would do well to do away with so many rules and jump into the pit with each other more often. Save yourself some money on therapy and get honest in your interactions. Language is a life raft when the water is rough and patience is scarce. Use it unapologetically.


And now, a word from Rocco.